


beloved

by blackeyedblonde



Category: True Detective
Genre: Abstract, M/M, Magical Realism, Nature Magic, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-25
Updated: 2015-06-25
Packaged: 2018-04-06 04:13:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4207482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackeyedblonde/pseuds/blackeyedblonde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the sky deepens to something ironclad and it begins to rain Marty always finds Rust in the ivy thicket, curled up and bedded down in a warm nest of moss and dry grass.</p>
            </blockquote>





	beloved

**Author's Note:**

  * For [laissemoidanser](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laissemoidanser/gifts).



> Written at 3 AM during a thunderstorm if that explains anything. The expression "the devil is beating his wife" is often used in the American South when the sun shines during a rain shower. 
> 
> Cheers to the lovely Helen, and to the sun and the moon. ❤

  
  
When the sky deepens to something ironclad and it begins to rain Marty always finds Rust in the ivy thicket, curled up and bedded down in a warm nest of moss and dry grass. The heart is lined with gifts of soft feathers and downy rabbit fur and he blinks awake when he hears the brush rustle, stretching and yawning in tandem with the distant scream of a lonely panther.  
  
“Why aren’t you shining?” Rust asks by way of greeting, laying so Marty can slide closer to curve around his body, feeling a sharp nose press into the autumn leaves behind his ear and breathe their colors down deep.  
  
“The devil ain’t too keen on beating his wife today,” Marty tells him, pressing his mouth to the ridge of Rust’s shoulder while his hand strays to the thick grooves worn like scarred pine around a familiar ribcage, one that blooms with dark mulberries and a nest of mockingbirds during the rise and fall of every spring.  
  
Rain falls and whispers through the forest but it doesn’t find them here, the sky gone indigo-dark and Marty burns bright enough for them to see one another through the shadow. Rust turns in his arms and there’s yellow pollen caught in his lashes, robin egg in the blue of his eyes and when Marty kisses him it’s always honeysuckle and virgin clover, a thread of poison oak he’ll wear for weeks and rotting wood dug free by the black bear with a mangled paw.  
  
Thunder groans when they collide and the wind matches Rust’s sighs and moans, blowing through the trees while they move together in the cupped palms of warm earth. Two hands rake down Marty’s back and make the dusky sky bleed pink and red in their wake, filling the horizon with strawberry bruises sucked into the soft skin at his chest and throat.  
  
Rust’s legs hitch up around Marty’s hips and when he gasps the earth shivers and shakes, a gentle rush of birdsong burst free. The rain comes down harder and they hold one another close under a woven wildflower blanket, Rust kissing sunspots along the bridge of a crooked nose, Marty tracing runes carved into the totem of a curved spine until he finds the round symbol notched deepest at the top.  
  
Another thicket keeps a doe and her newborn fawn safe from the storm, tucked away together behind a wall of thorns while the rain begins to trickle and slow. She licks pink afterbirth from the spots of white dusted along the baby’s back and it nestles closer to her side, still too weak to stand and nurse.  
  
_Where is the sun?_ the fawn asks its mother, the first question in this wide new world.  
  
_Waiting for the rain to stop_ , she says, curving around the baby to sleep. _With his beloved._  
  



End file.
